Josh Freed: Despicable Me? Ha! I can one-up that

MONTREAL — A few weeks ago I went to a Fringe Festival show called Horrible Things.

As audience members walked in, we were handed scraps of paper and asked to write down the “most horrible thing” we’d ever done.

Everyone was scribbling stories, so I scrawled something, too, about a long-ago incident. I didn’t write my name, but I whispered to my wife: “They are definitely going to use this story somehow — trust me.”

When the show started, very talented comedian DeAnne Smith told funny tales about her most horrible moments — like accidentally murdering a frog. Then she read some “horrible things” from the 100-odd crowd members, mostly sexual stories, like: “I’ve cheated on every man I’ve ever been with, including my husband who’s here tonight.”

Sure enough, the very last story was mine, though to my surprise DeAnne asked the “anonymous” author to come up and reveal more details — because the story seemed so “truly horrible.”

It was the first time I’ve told the tale in public so I’ll share it with you, too.

It goes back to my end-of-college days when I got my first job as a waiter — at a huge Howard Johnson’s in Atlantic City.

I started out as a nervous young server, but quickly became a super-confident waiter, fancying myself in a Paris bistro — slinging my small plate-stacked tray above my head, while whirling dangerously between tables.

One night, a large well-dressed party showed up to celebrate the night before a wedding. I hit it off with the bride and her 60-something mother who liked my swashbuckling serving style.

After dinner, Mom requested I make her the “best ice cream sundae ever.” So I went off to the kitchen, where I made a towering chocolate-strawberry-whipped-cream confabulation I knew she’d remember — though I didn’t know how much.

Minutes later, I waltzed out of the kitchen, tray above my head, and zigzagged my way daringly through the crowded roomful of tables.

No problem.

As I arrived at the wedding group I brought the tray down from my shoulder in a dramatic, swooping gesture to present the super-sundae. At the same instant, the bride’s mother spontaneously rose up to greet me, exclaiming: “What a wonderful —”

But she never finished the sentence.

My crowded tray slammed into her chest — and I watched, transfixed in dread, as a shiny, silver teapot slid down the tray in what seemed like slow motion, then gently toppled over, spilling its boiling contents and lodging in the yawning cleavage of her dress.

I have never forgotten the scream she let out — partly because it never stopped.

She collapsed backward onto the floor in shock, still shrieking — and I knelt down in nearly equal shock to hold her hand, as her skin swelled and turned scarlet. In seconds, everyone in the restaurant was standing on chairs straining to see what was happening. (If it were today, they’d all be snapping photos.)

Staff were running about in panic trying to calm the pandemonium, as the manager called police and the chef rushed out with a slab of butter he slammed on the woman’s chest.

Minutes later, a screaming siren pulled up to the door — then medics entered, treated the woman briefly and carried her off in a stretcher, her screams slowly receding.

As they left, I turned around trembling and saw the manager before me, his face red with fury. He pointed at the door with a single finger and hissed: “GO — and never come back.”

I did.

Three days later, back in Montreal, I heard the woman was recovering well in hospital with second-degree burns — but had missed her daughter’s wedding. I fell into a terrible, morose funk, reliving the incident over and over and regretting my idiotic waiter flair.

I considered joining the Peace Corps or the Foreign Legion in contrition. I might have — but for a letter I received a few weeks later. It was from the mother — who’d tracked down my Canadian address.

She said I was probably feeling terrible, but I should know she had fully recovered. Naturally, she regretted missing the wedding, but she wanted me to know the accident wasn’t my fault. I was just trying to please her, she said — and I hadn’t expected her to abruptly stand up.

She urged me to forget the accident and wished me well in life. As I read the letter tears dripped down my face at her generous spirit.

Still, as the crowd at the Fringe show learned last month, none of this was the worst thing I did.

That happened as the mother fell to the restaurant floor screaming — and I knelt over her, looked into her agonized, shrieking face, and instinctively whispered to her: “Shhhhhhhh.”

Almost Done!

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